Macaroni
Patsy Doe, a girl that I know,
Hates semolina second to none –
She find it just so stodgy-slow
When puddings are meant to be fun !
Her mamma tells her “Patsy, really !
It’s only a bowl of unmolded spaghetti.
Just think of it as chopped-up fusilli,
And eat up all your dessert already.”
(Ah, poor mamma, you’ve no idea just what you’ve done !)
From this moment on, young Patsy
Becomes enamoured by dried clumps of wheat –
She reads gluttonously, so that she
Can understand each straw and sheet –
Strings and pens and pipes and worms,
Shells and wheels and butterflies –
So many forms, so many terms,
She wants to try them all for size.
(Ah, poor mamma, so many types to cook and eat !)
So Patsy learns the difference
Of tagliatelle and fettucini,
(Like how her brother can tell at a glance
A Maserati from Lamborghini.)
She tells her fam’ly of how Columbus
Ate up his pasta dry, of course –
Until he discovered the tomato, thus
He finally created the perfect sauce.
(Ah, poor mamma, too much pasta means no bikini !)
Patsy Doe, a girl that I know,
Finds carb makes her grow up faster –
Time to shake up the status quo
And swap her olive oil for castor.
Enough of the childish alphabetti,
And ravioli parcels with loot in –
With Atkins, maybe she’ll be less sweaty,
And none of the cool kids are eating gluten.
(Ah, poor mamma, with cupboards full of uncooked pasta…)
Rhyming Couplets 